


Brontide

by Laerthel



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: FeanorianWeek, Gen, I'm a huge nerd, Poetry, classical structures, lyrical and stylistical references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-08 01:16:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10374561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laerthel/pseuds/Laerthel
Summary: "I promised the Doomsman that I would pay my dues // yet trials of long years have emptied my purse."





	1. Song of the Scarecrow

**Author's Note:**

> 'Brontide' (n) [eng.] - The low rumble of distant thunder.
> 
> You are now reading my contribution to the Tumblr event “Feanorian Week” in 2017, organised between the 20th and 26th of March. I will update each prompt accordingly, in the following order: 1. Maedhros 2. Maglor 3. Celegorm 4. Caranthir 5. Curufin 6. Amrod & Amras and 7. Feanor.
> 
> To bring both my understanding of these characters and my skills as an author to a higher level, I decided to write my prompts using patterns and techniques I find extremely complex and/or difficult to monitor. Each day of this event, I will update this set of prompts with a piece of poetry, designed as if written by the character linked to the actual day.
> 
> All of these prompts were written in different classic poetic structures, from the easiest to the most complex kinds. And even though I’m usually a rather instinctive writer, this time, every little symbol and every triseme was calculated with as much precision as I could find in myself – hence the fact that for the first (and probably the last) time ever, I will also publish small bits of stylistic and rhythmical analysis, as well as notes on the reasons behind my choices of structure, topic and form.
> 
> For all the lunatics who are interested in such acts of blasphemy, I send my sincere invitation to consult my ‘Author’s Notes’ after each prompt.
> 
> And as always - enjoy!

Would ye ever kneel ’fore a crownless king  
letting your finest cloak pour into dust  
not knowing what all those dim days shall bring  
when your own proud people protect you’ll must?  
Would ye ever build your hopes an’ your dreams  
upon a hill clawed by wind-fangs of ice?  
Would ye go against your own brothers’ pleas,  
against law, against love’s earnest advice?  
Would ye go pick the lock on castle gates  
open the hinges ’fore winds of thunder  
when red sun rises ’bove fair lands laid waste  
remnants of your kingdom torn asunder?  
     The silence of your halls now comes to end,  
     Behold what words of doom thou shall portend.

.

I am the one who sinned, I who bathed in crimson  
I who yelled ’death’ at armies of ten thousand;  
Would it count as roistering if I asked for ransom  
to spend my proud people an’ my best stallions?

(I am the one spared, one daringly rescued  
flown on Eagle’s wings from cruel death to worse  
I promised the Doomsman that I would pay my dues  
yet trials of long years have emptied my purse.)

.

 ~~my soul is bare  
six feet underground  
dread tramples me  
with its hooves of iron  
shame nuzzles my skin   
its claws around my neck  
despair has its lips  
upon my forehead  
scorn presses its finger  
down my throat  
and i plead  
a corpse  
a waning reflection  
a shade  
a shadow of glory  
a thrall  
a mockery of might  
a sin  
a shell  
a feast for crows  
a reeking swamp   
for winds to rouse~~ - ~~~~  
  


* * *

** Author’s Notes **

**About the form:** An English (or Shakespearean) sonnet consists of 14 decasyllabic lines, its rhyming structured as _abab cdcd efef gg._ To make the author’s life even more miserable, each line should have iambic pulsation (I didn’t entirely manage to do that, I admit…).

The second and third parts of the poem break the steady structure: the second episode imitates a clumsy and badly punctuated tavern song and the third has much more to do with postmodern poetry than anything else.

 **…and the reason behind:** At first, I thought that a Shakespearean sonnet, with its rigorous eminence, would be a perfect form for Maedhros. Lordship, the leading of a household, the power to command and the responsibility that comes with owning the lands of Himlad and keeping watch against the Enemy: all these things must have laid enormous weights on his shoulder, sometimes to the point of breaking, of suffocating him. I wanted his words and thoughts to be sort-of imprisoned in this stark structure without any chance to break free, apart from the absolute necessity that he managed to express in his poem.

The second and third part just came as companion pieces: in fact, I had to realise that Maedhros would not be entirely able to stuff himself between the frames of a sonnet. Not any longer; not after his rescue. If he were to read this poem aloud for an audience, he’d probably leave part II. and part III. out of the whole matter, but they would be there nevertheless, scraped carelessly on the paper (perhaps even crossed out or thickly scribbled over with ink).

Accordingly, part II. delves a layer deeper in Maedhros’s personality, showing that he’s a genuinely good and caring soul and even has a (wry) sense of humour. Part III., on the other hand, betrays fear and despair: the true feelings beneath the kingly surface.


	2. The Landlord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our poet of the day can be as gentle as a lapping wave and as dangerous as a seastorm - some call him Kanafinwe, some Makalaure and some only Maglor.
> 
> To complicate things, our poet of the day is actually a singer.

_... because what is a song without music?_

_(I hereby allow the Reader to hear the song, read below, say DAAAAAMMMNN and slap the Author. No swearing, though - especially not on the name of Eru)._

 

 **The** **Ñoldolantë and Other Songs n’ Lays**

**MDLXXVII.**

**The Landlord**

Upon paths of white stone I walk  
in sunlight’s glow and deep nightfall;  
through seasons uncounted and lays untold  
through woods and streams and peaks ice-cold  
through fields of grass and plains of sand  
voice through the lands sings songs of old  
(I’m lost without you)  
(I’m lost without you)

(As all my kingdoms turn to sand)  
(and fall into the sea,)  
(I’m mad about you)  
(Mad about you)

Through thunderstorm my voice faintly calls  
In whirls of wind its cunning shards get caught  
with gripping dread I extend my hand  
yet the cruel-weaved web of my curses holds  
and the echoes of this forlorn plea  
crash down in wells of sadness  
(tell me how much longer)  
(how much longer?)  
In the youth o' world I was a son of kings  
my lands were vast and my concerns thin  
I lived blessed days with the love o’ my life  
’til we answered the door an’ let the winter in  
(These are the works of our hands),  
(This is the sum of our ambition),  
now sea’s my kingdom and my castle’s sand  
a tale of woes coming to bitter end -

With the blackest Shadow blown to puffs  
my Enemy is me;  
And I’m mad about you  
Mad about you

(And I have never in my life)  
(Felt more alone then I do now)  
although I claim dominions  
all over the Sea  
yet that means nothing to me  
that means no victory:  
’tis an injury  
with no blood.

Upon paths of cracking stone I walk  
in night-light’s glow and deep sun-fall;  
through seasons uncounted and lays untold  
through wooden streams and peaks ice-cold  
through plains of grass and fields of sand  
voice through the lands sings songs of old:  
(I’m lost without you,)  
(Lost without you.)

You’ve been always holding keys to ruin  
Of everything I’ve seen;  
With the blackest Shadow blown to puffs  
its smoke still flies sour and free;  
As all my kingdoms turn to dust  
And get swallowed by the Sea -  
I’m still mad about you  
(Mad about you.)

* * *

 

** Author’s Notes **

**About the structure:** Maglor’s poem is, in fact, a song (I don’t think that this revelation should surprise anyone). But instead of reaching out to the classical roots, I chose a very modern setting this time. In fact, this piece is a transcription of ’Mad About You’ by Sting, to the point of even borrowing some lines (mostly those in brackets).

Despite it being very simple, the lyrics have some slight mirror-like structure: mostly the first verse and the last.

 **...and the reason behind:** I envisioned this one to be a Fourth Age piece, one he sang on his endless journeys along the seashores, in search of the Silmaril.

Other than that... I often get Elven vibes while listening to Sting; transcribing ’Mad About You’ (the original lyrics written in a biblic setting!) was something I’ve been wanting to do for more than a decade.


	3. An Act Of Palliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Celegorm of the House of Feanor gives an inacceptable explanation on certain events, while his Muse is clearly missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to THANK YOU for your support, and many forms of feedback (especially the comments). You gave me many things to elaborate upon, and I would like to take my time to answer you all (and will probably give long answers here and there). You know I always answer everyone separately, but please consider also that you made me giddy with joy with your reviews! :) :)

**Lyenna, ’Lass** **ëtur**

O silent joy! O flight desperate from wounds  
so perilous! O eyes a-gleaming through deep’st night!  
O bliss unwanted, hate unmeasured:  
knife through the heart of a prince once treasured –

**Thou Art No More**

Behold! stars shine like silver tears  
all woven into fine dark silk  
and through echoes of nameless fears  
bright diamond bells of sorrow ring.

The caress of North Wind is cold  
upon your face: you ramble on  
stern touch of ice your fever’s haste  
to stay, in oblivion’s embrace.

Ahead ye look and far ye go!  
Never wish Time’s cruel wheels to slow;  
through reeking ashes, valiant deeds  
to cloud: a shadow ‘bove fair fields.

Through meadows wide, free lands she danced  
blue skirts flying and arms outstretched;  
her hair darker than lonely nights,  
her skin a lucid marble white;

through heart earnest had bit the steel  
(some say that such wounds seldom heal)  
a cut so deep would have long fouled  
even ‘if her falseness hadn’t showed.

(…)

Denied, unwanted lay the prince  
idle fingers playing mute strings  
not one lament from him was heard:  
yet all pitied his hidden hurt.

The prince’s name was then befouled  
foul horde of false judges summoned;  
few faced him there who wished him well -  
curses woven to chivalrous spells.

Thus all the charges fell upon  
the princely head: he stood alone  
half-buried in his dwindling grief  
sudden, merely a common thief.

(…)

~~Yet through meadows she’ll dance no more.~~  
~~She lies beneath cold, ruthless stone;~~  
~~at least this much the prince can tell -~~  
~~his mistress to’ wells of sorrow fell.~~

* * *

 

** Author’s Notes **

**Part 1.**

**About the title:** Lyenna (A)lassëtur is a nearly exact Quenya translation of ’To thee, Thaliarchus’ [Lat. : approx. ’Master of revels’]. Pt. 1 is an **Alcaic stanza** – an archaic lyrical meter, the traditional form of the classic Ode (hence the Horace reference). It’s very unusual (but not against the rules) that an Alcaic stanza contains actual rhymes.

**Part 2.**

…is written in **iambic tetrameter,** the same rhythm as The Lay of Leithian. :) Part 2 deliberately continues part 1, since the title (‘Thou Art No More’) could be read as the first line of the second part of the poem. I have been pondering for quite a while what it would be like to rewrite the Lay from Celegorm’s and Curufin’s point of view, but honestly, I believe my English is not (yet) on that level. Anyway, consider this as the first (very sketchy and rudimentary) attempt.


	4. The Lady of Alqualondë

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caranthir's piece... for which, I have no excuses.

Happened on the shorelines, the last time I met her  
the skies were a dirty, blood-befouled red  
‘twas a lightness about me: my spirits were high up  
on the wings of a nameless cold dread  
And as time was approaching, the Captain moved over  
the Hangman stepped in, and followed all who had  
and if there were tears ‘neath our dense veils of darkness  
they were not the Lady’s to shed

And swallowing our pride  
we did ride, we did ride

I have never seen a young maiden fairer  
with grace did she move like a swan in the sea  
when the Captain was away, the Minstrel was ‘round her  
his deep voice makin’ her dance with glee  
Yet time was approaching: and the skies grew all wider  
and if I knew the Sun I would have surely deemed  
that it must have stopped in the process of setting  
since blood seemed to paint all the Sea;

Yet swallowing my thought  
I said naught; I said naught

For days I had waited, all voiceless around her  
my hands wandering through soft carvings on her neck  
and through all those hours I had no chance to tell her  
that she would be never coming back  
‘Cause time was approaching; and the Captain grew bolder  
and the Hunter was tired of pulling the oars  
the stars were a-waning like candles in the distance  
and we were all slowly bent to the Cause

And denying my might  
Along I did ride, I did ride

And I saw in the distance the far shores approaching  
I nodded to ‘self; and my throat went all dry  
barely I had heard all the pitiful cheering  
of those who were ready to die -  
when all I could think of was the touch of her fine skirts  
as slowly they poured between fingers held tight  
I turned to empty skies and cried out in disgust  
for the One above who could stop the tide

Yet denying her plea  
I did flee, I did flee

And as time was approaching, the Captain pulled over  
as our oars were pushed through to the ends of the World  
she withstood the thunder raising her head proudly  
as winds carried our doom to be heard  
And no stars were seen as time was growing nearer  
together we moved like eight corpse’ within one  
(some people were hither and some people left thither  
with us had come less than the half…)

And as time was approaching, we all came to see clearer  
that she was never meant to be let safely home  
far across black seas red torches were burning  
and suddenly I felt alone;  
but the Hangman spoke up; and a might was about him  
“my Captain,” he said, “what of our fair young mistress?  
how shall we drive her home through waves now so stormy  
to have her see our folk safely here?”

And across hollow shores rang the Captain’s laughter  
an unearthly sound devoid all sort of warmth:  
“Dimwits” he snorted, “we’ll have no use of her  
our burden she shall be no more!”  
Steel rang in his hands and he laid hands upon her  
and my tortured soul sank to black depths of hell  
at first it was no more than a slash ‘cross her forehead  
yet I knew her life came to its end

The Hangman stood aside, in his eyes the reflection  
of the wild fire’s light we set to ease the cold  
for a moment I shuddered and stood out beside him  
and there was nothing that could be told -  
At the Captain’s stern command a gathering commenced  
and to deep wells of sin carelessly we fell  
the Minstrel, the Hunter, the Captain, the Craftsman  
and there were the Twins and myself…

(And all save the Hangman  
together we were damned, we were damned)

 _And we pulled out her cables and hacked off her hatches_  
_too damned to be wasteful with pity or time_  
 _We swarmed on her carcass with torches and axes_  
 _like a whale on a bloody shoreline_  
 _And we stripped off her pillars, her stays and her stanchions;_  
 _when ‘twas only her bones on the wet poison land_  
 _with ropes we would drag her and set her on fire_  
 _‘till she was only a stain on the sand._

* * *

 

**Author’s Notes**

_Okay, I promised myself I won’t tell this until Feanorian Week is over, but… at present, I consider this piece as the best goddamn thing I have ever written. Perhaps you will see that otherwise, but anyway: this poem is my precious child and I LOVE IT SO MUCH._

**Author’s Serious Notes**

**About the form and references:** [Quote from Literarydevices.com] _. „A **ballad** is a narrative poem that originally was set to music. Ballads were first created in medieval France, and the word ballad comes from the French term chanson balladée, which means “dancing song.”_

_As ballads were originally meant to be lyrics set to dancing music, there is a noticeable musical quality to the rhythm of the lines. The typical “ballad meter” was an alternation between lines **in iambic tetrameter** and **iambic trimeter**. Ballads were generally written in quatrains with a regular rhyme scheme of ABCB. However, there were many different variations on the meter and rhyme of traditional ballads depending on their geographical origin. The main feature in all ballads was their narrative structure and repetition of certain lines or even whole stanzas.”_

The last verse (in italic) and the rhythm of the whole poem was shamelessly stolen from a **Mark Knopfler** song you can see (and play) below.

 **…and the reason behind:** To me, Caranthir is very special. I can’t exactly explain why, but I’m convinced he’s far more sensitive and empathical (despite his loud nature, and despite the fact that he wears his heart on his sleeve) than many think. I also consider his mindset to be strikingly different from that of everyone in his family.

 **Other:** Please pardon me for referring to Maedhros as ‘The Hangman’.


	5. A Song of Fare-not-well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (in which the Author mourns himself, since no other shall mourn him)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit that it's very unlikely that Curufin could have written a poem in the last moments of his life, but let's play with the thought. This is a raspy song that echoes through the ravaged halls of Menegroth.

_(When half way through the journey of our life_  
_I found that I was in a gloomy wood,_  
_because the path which led aright was lost -)_  
From towers high ’tis easy to fare good  
when all one has to do is tie the noose  
be sure to pull it as tight as one should  
lest all the whispers from their heart break loose.

I was the one sweating iron to mould,  
forges of words put me also to use;  
I worked your blade as no-one else here would;  
bending the darkest shadows to my will  
selling your secret dreams to every crowd.  
Yet you shan’t ever hear me speakin’ ill:  
Be good to me an’ leave me ere dawn breaks.

The King o’Worms shall expect me to kneel  
as rising sun sets gloomy woods ablaze;  
to say that I’m afraid would be a ruse  
my body seeks its rest in earth’s embrace.  
The stories you may hear are seldom true -  
chiselled, cunningly crafted out of scorn  
draped in a sarky childhood tale’s allure:

through weary heart the sharp bite of a thorn.  
Death whispers through the fields in subtlety  
’neath ruins o’ cold fortress left there to mourn  
as rusty hinges hold hell’s doors for me.  
Standing on brinks o’ death I’m still the fiend  
from whom all decent folks had tried to flee  
as long as I had a weapon to wield.

Come closer friend: bathe in my vile blood  
your gentle hands unseeing eyes to shield  
the Lord o’Caves wants this last feast be held  
in honour of a fallen hero’s bane.  
The Ages of the World shall see me damned  
 in history my name be put to shame  
yet please believe me, be you foe or friend:  
the title of heartless ’s not mine to claim.

* * *

**Author’s Notes**

**About the structure:** _[Quotes from poets(.)org] :_ Invented by the Italian poet _Dante Alighieri_ in the late thirteenth century to structure his three-part epic poem, _The Divine Comedy_ , **terza rima** is composed of tercets woven into a rhyme scheme that requires the end-word of the second line in one tercet to supply the rhyme for the first and third lines in the following tercet. Thus, the rhyme scheme (aba, bcb, cdc, ded) continues through to the final stanza or line. (...) Terza rima is typically written in an iambic line, and in English, most often in **iambic pentameter**.

 **Iambic pentameter** : a traditional form of rising meter consisting of lines containing five iambic feet (and, thus, ten syllables). It is a commonly used type of metrical line in traditional English poetry and verse drama.

An iambic foot is an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable. The rhythm can be written as ’da DUM’. The da-DUM of a human heartbeat is the most common example of this rhythm.

 **...and the reason behind** : As soon as the idea of this challenge formed in my mind, I knew I was going to stuff a Dante reference into it. I just LOVE _’The Divine Comedy’_ (even though to this day, I’ve only read ’Inferno’); and from the seven brothers, it seemed the most logical to link it to Curufin. Terza rima is a very complex (and more than a little bit maddening) structure with many cross-references and technic details. It’s like an architectural structure: you get one line wrong, and the whole thing tumbles down like a house of cards.

This poem, unlike the others, is purely mathematical. You have five verses for the fifth son of Feanor and seven lines in each verse (save the last) for the Seven Brothers.


	6. Morning Glory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sixth one in the line; in which we're to discover the term "poetic grumpiness"

AMBARTO                       Risen by gentle breeze an’ blood-red fingers o’ sunlight  
                                      startled by stirs of earth a bird’s call flies through forests old;  
                                      lo! even our door (gentle planches of oak) ’s off the hinges:  
                                      wake brother and be joyous! for springtime has finally come.

  
TELUFINWE                     Leave me fell fiend! begone from rich fields painted by mind’s eye  
                                      spare me thy eloquence: fruitless chase after nonsense.  
                                      Mightiest hunter thou art – why not grab the swiftest of spears  
                                      why ain’t thou after a prey, leaving me to my fine rest?  
                                      My mind’s weary enough without thy breaking inside it.

  
AMBARTO                      Why will thou not look up to wide skies, why won’t thou stand tall?  
                                      Why ever doth thy words ring so bitter under wide blue skies?  
                                      Come, take my hand! Let’s spy on rabbits and pheasants  
                                      let us cross the river an’ follow tracks of a young fawn.

  
TELUFINWE                     I told ye – begone! Why thou still remain so persistent  
                                      when thy sole silent wish should be to lay down beside me:  
                                      untouched by cold wings of dread we shall feast down here in silence,  
                                      uncalled by horns of greed we shall hunt until the World’s end.

  
AMBARTO                      Art thou mad?! Why would I crawl in the dust like some fell beast  
                                      why would I let my names and titles go with the west wind?  
                                      What’s that thou may ask from me yet: spread my fine cloak  
                                      leavin’ it out in the wilderness for worms to chew upon?  
                                      Hunters of might we may be: yet our names still have their meanings  
                                      the duty of lords holds us still: do not take such tolls lightly!

TELUFINWE                     Thou hast spoken thy mind: I shall not deny thy greatness  
                                      nor shall I wrongfully say that thou art out o’ thy good mind  
                                      still: I hold ‘to my word that thy heart flies over wide skies  
                                      eyes unseeing cruel pits of deep sin in which we’re crawling  
                                      devoid of hope of ever feeling Anor’s golden embrace  
                                      cursed among accursed shall we dwell in the woods until world’s end  
                                      and if that’s true - art thou still willing to disturb my fine rest?

AMBARTO                       Anor’s veiled by now: let us rest then ‘til new sun rises  
                                      rest well brother: never let shadows of cold dread haunt ye!

TELUFINWE                     Lay down and join me: sleep deep and merry while able  
                                      rest well brother: never let gallows of cruel death find ye.

* * *

** Author’s notes **

**About the form:** _[Quotes from britannica(.) org]_ **Eclogue:** a short pastoral poem written in dactylic hexameter, usually in dialogue, on the subject of rural life and the society of shepherds, depicting rural life as free from the complexity and corruption of more civilized life. The eclogue first appeared in the Idylls of the Greek poet Theocritus (c. 310–250 bc), generally recognized as the inventor of pastoral poetry. The Roman poet Virgil (70–19 bc) adopted the form for his 10 Eclogues, or Bucolics.

 **Hexameter** is a metrical line of verses consisting of six feet. It was the standard epic metre in classical Greek and Latin literature, such as in the Iliad, Odyssey and Aeneid. According to Greek mythology, hexameter was invented by the god Hermes.

(The metric lines are not entirely punctual everywhere: they’re only following pronunciation. If you dig yourself deep in the trisemes, I’m sure you will find plenty of mistakes, and I freely admit that I did the whole thing a bit blindly, relying solely on my instincts. The reason for that lies not in laziness, but my conviction that Amrod and Amras (and their poetry) are themselves far more instinctive than conscious. They would simply not have the time and patience to do this sort of thing properly. Again: their characters will be much elaborated in ‘The Seven Gates’).

**A short note on the twins**

Ambarto stands for Amrod and Telufinwe for Amras. (The name-meanings shall not be elaborated upon here – unless one of you request it -, even though their choice was no coincidence).

In my “personal universe”, a strange merge of ‘The Silmarillion’ and ‘The Shibboleth’ events happened at Losgar, with the very active participation of both Caranthir and Counsellor Tyelcano (I might even write that once, I don’t know). A short summary: Amras is the elder and Amrod the younger (like in The Shibboleth), but they both survive the burning of the ships (like in The Silm).


End file.
